


Come To My Window Re-Write

by caleprwrite



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Best Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Illness, Civil War Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon Fix-It, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caleprwrite/pseuds/caleprwrite
Summary: Events throughout Steve and Bucky's life, based on and inspired by Melissa Etheridge's song 'Come to My Window'





	1. 1930- Just to Listen to Your Breath

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
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> This is a small series I wrote, and really liked but there were a few changes I wanted to make. I thought it would be a good one to re-write, maybe change some grammar and expand some ideas.

**1930- Just to Listen to Your Breath**

 

_ I would dial numbers _

_ Just to listen to your breath _

_ I would stand inside my hell _

_ And hold the hand of death _

_ You don’t know how far I’d go _

_ To ease this precious ache _

_ You don’t know how much I’d give _

_ Or how much I can take _

_ Just to reach you _

_ Just to reach you _

_ Oh to reach you _

 

Twelve year old Steven Grant Rogers had never backed down from a fight. Scars on his skin and old breaks in his bones proved as much. Given the fact that he was small for his age,  _ really small, _ he’d been picked on more than your average pale Irish kid in Depression-Era Brooklyn. 

Steve’s size had made him an easy target for the bullies on and off the school yard. Combine that with the fact that he was a mouthy little shit and he was practically a walking, talking target. Steve didn’t like bullies, and didn’t care who they were or where they came from. They were all equally detestable in his eyes and he lived to stand up to them. He’d square his little shoulders, raise that chin and stare up with all the righteous indignation those bright blue eyes could muster, stubbornly taking punch after punch. Each time he’d get knocked down, he’d pull himself back up just to mouth off again, tossing back, “I could do this all day!”

Thirteen year old James Buchanan Barnes was a good boy. He was naturally clever, mathematically inclined and fascinated by science and inventions. His teachers saw this as him having his head in the clouds, when really, his brain moved quickly. Having to focus on history and grammar bored him to death, and a bored Bucky was rarely a good thing.

Bucky was tall, strong and had a bright smile and piercing grey eyes. He was a friendly kid who got along with just about everyone, unless they had something to say about his best friend Steve. Because of that, Bucky had been in more fights than he cared to admit, most of the time jumping in for the sole purpose of saving Steve Rogers’ scrawny ass. All because Steve was a scrawny little shit that didn’t know when to quit. Regardless, Bucky practically worshipped the ground the kid walked on.

Steve and Bucky were practically inseparable. As they grew older, everyone assumed Bucky was the one that caused the trouble. Hardly anyone suspected the frail, innocent looking, artistic golden-haired boy of causing so much grief. Bucky didn’t mind; he let everyone make their assumptions. It was just one of Bucky’s millions of ways to protect Steve, because if Steve lived to mouth off, then Bucky lived to jump in and fight by his side. If for some reason, he didn’t get there in time to back him up, he’d always at least be there to scrape him up off the ground.

Each time he did step in for Steve, he’d surely hear about it later. The prideful little shit hated being babied, and insisted he was just fine on his own, thank you very much. ‘I had him on the ropes Buck!’ 

The bigger boy would patiently take the verbal lashing all the while cleaning and patching up the small blond’s cuts and bruises. That’s just how it was with Steve and Bucky. Steve’s mother Sarah was a nurse. She taught the boys first aid early on, once she realized her little troublemaker was never going to change.

Sarah Rogers knew Steve’s heart, partly because she was his mother, and that’s what mothers do. Also, because Steve got his stubborn streak directly from her. She wouldn’t trade it for the world though, because it was that very quality that kept his little body fighting through so many illnesses. 

When Steve was just a toddler, he was diagnosed with asthma. He was also anemic and ran unexplained fevers frequently. Each winter, he’d practically catch his death with pneumonia. So, did Sarah want Steve to settle down? Go with the flow, learn how to take life as it came- without a fight? Not on your life. That instinctual, ingrained need to fight was sometimes the only thing that kept him alive. 

During the late fall of 1930, Steve’s pneumonia arrived before the first snow. He was so sick, he’d slept nearly three days straight, and it scared the shit out of Bucky. It was the first time Bucky stood watch at Steve’s bedside that long, coming over straight from school Friday afternoon. He spent the weekend alternating between sitting quietly, praying for Steve to wake up and talking the blond’s ear off about everything from the Brooklyn Dodgers to the news about transatlantic flight. 

“One day, Stevie,” Bucky said. “You just wait, we’ll be flyin’ too. All the way to Europe. Maybe we’ll even see Paris, wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

During the second night, when Steve still hadn’t made any real progress, Bucky started to silently panic. He begged quietly through his own tears for Steve to get better. The doctors had already been to see Steve, and told Sarah there wasn’t anything they could do until his small body broke the fever. 

Bucky snuck a quick kiss to Steve’s lips. His skin was heated with the fever and his lips were chapped, but Bucky was willing to try anything. He knew he loved his friend, loved him more than anything and just maybe… that he could love him enough to make a difference.

Finally.  _ Finally, _ Sunday afternoon, Steve’s fever broke and he woke enough to talk and eat broth. The color in his eyes was still dim and they looked sunken, but Bucky never thought Steve looked better, because he was _ back. _

After supper, Sarah insisted Bucky return home to rest before school the next morning, much to the boys’ dismay. Poor Steve was so weak, he barely kept his eyes open, but he loved listening to Bucky’s voice. It didn’t really matter what he was saying, the sound just made Steve happy.

Late that night, Bucky found out he was finally tall enough to reach the fire escape ladder outside of Steve’s building as long as he stood on the metal trash bin. He climbed up the three floors to the outside of the Rogers’ home and shoved open Steve’s window.   

Steve woke to a bitter cold breeze and the sounds of Bucky clambering in through his bedroom window. He curled in a ball and wrapped the blankets tighter around his small frame, trying to suppress a cough. 

“Buck, what’re ya doin’? Ma’s gonna kill you if she hears you makin’ all this racket!” he rasped.

Just as quickly, Bucky closed the window and kicked off his shoes. “Just makin’ sure you’re doin’ alright, Stevie. Couldn’t sleep. Shove over, punk,” he whispered and crawled in, laying on his back next to Steve.

Their eyes met, each with that familiar grin they had when they knew they were getting away with something. Steve was the first to talk. 

“Hey Buck?” he wheezed, coughing pitifully into his pillow.

“Yeah Stevie?”

“How long was I out for this time?”

Bucky’s smile faded and a worried frown took its place. He tried to hide it, but they knew each other too well. 

“Off and on, almost three days.” Bucky turned so he was facing Steve and tried to do what he did best, cheer the kid up. “’Bout time you woke up, lazy ass,” he teased with a forced smile.

“M’cold, don’t feel right. You think I’ll make it outta this one?” Steve asked honestly, staring into Bucky’s worried grey eyes. His voice was small, and he sounded tired, discouraged. “Winter ain’t even here yet…”

“Don’t you talk like that Steven Grant Rogers!” Bucky whispered harshly. “You ain’t never backed off no fight yet, yeah? You’re not about to start now, ya hear me punk?”

Steve smiled at the conviction in his best friend’s voice. Leave it to Bucky to give him shit for feeling sorry for himself. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. ‘Sides, who else is gonna listen to ya yappin’ all day, ya jerk,” Steve nettled sleepily. 

“Hey!” Bucky groaned in mock offense and play-punched Steve in the shoulder, causing him to laugh into a wheezing cough. “Turn over, Stevie. I’ll warm your lungs up,” Bucky ordered.

Steve did as he was told, and Bucky curled his larger, warmer body around his smaller friend. The laid chest to back, sharing the extra body heat. 

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve whispered, relaxing into his friend’s embrace.

Bucky squeezed gently and buried his face into Steve’s blond hair. “Night, Stevie.” 

 

_ Come to my window _

_ Crawl inside, wait by the light of the moon _

_ Come to my window, I’ll be home soon _


	2. 1936- Giving Away Promises

**1936- Giving Away Promises**

 

_Keeping my eyes open_

_I cannot afford to sleep_

_Giving away promises_

_I know that I can’t keep_

 

_Nothing fills the blackness_

_That has seeped into my chest_

_I need you in my blood_

_I am forsaking all the rest_

 

_Just to reach you_

_Just to reach you_

_Oh to reach you, oh_

 

“Buck… She’s gone,” Steve choked out, his thin shoulders slumped and tears welling up in his big blue eyes.

“C’mere, Stevie. I’m so sorry.” Bucky wrapped his strong arms around Steve and held him while he sobbed into his chest.

Sarah Rogers was gone. The hospital she’d worked at was hit hard by Tuberculosis, and it was a fucking miracle Steve hadn’t been infected too. Sarah left for Sea View as soon as she became symptomatic. She fought it for two solid months, but like so many others, she’d simply lost the battle.  

“I just wish I could’a been there, held her hand. I should’a been there,” Steve whispered plaintively.

“Stevie, come on pal,” Bucky soothed, keeping his arms around Steve and gently running his hands up and down Steve’s back. “You know she’d do anythin’ to keep ya healthy. Your Ma told us not to come, and she meant it.” Bucky reached down and held Steve’s face gently between his hands. He blinked back his own tears and his voice cracked over the lump in his own throat. “We both promised, ‘kay? Can’t think like that. It was her dyin’ wish and we couldn’t take it away from her.”

Steve’s eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, they were swollen and red with mourning and sorrow as they looked up at Bucky. And goddammit, Bucky’d give anything to never see that kind of pain in Steve’s eyes ever again. He bent his head down and pressed their foreheads together , breathing the same air, silently begging, willing Steve’s hurt away. He softly brushed Steve’s skin with his thumb, wiping the tears from his cheek.

Steve’s hands fisted into Bucky’s shirt, holding on for dear life, desperate for some kind of physical connection. He sighed and lessened his grip before fear flashed across his features. He pulled Bucky impossibly closer and breathed, “Oh, God. Buck, I- I don’t wanna be alone.”  

“Hey, you don’t gotta be alone, Stevie. I’m right here. Never leavin’ you,” Bucky promised and pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s forehead.

Steve stilled against his lips and when their teary eyes met again, Bucky’s heart broke open. Without thinking, he caught Steve’s lips in a desperate kiss. The warmth and barely there taste of salty tears brought out something feral and protective in Bucky. When Steve’s hands gripped Bucky’s hips and he kissed back hungrily, they both knew they’d crossed a line. It was a line that in that moment, neither wanted to come back from, even if they could.

A small, broken sound halfway between fear and relief escaped from deep inside Bucky. If his brain had been functioning at all, he’d have apologized and run off the second he kissed Steve, blame it on the emotions, on being caught up in the moment. He could say he just meant to reassure Steve and play it off like a big misunderstanding, but the truth was, Bucky didn’t _want_ his brain to weigh in on any of that. He’d been wanting to kiss Steve as long as he could remember, really _kiss_ him.

All those years ago, when he stayed watch by Steve’s side for three days straight, he’d snuck in a try. Out of fear that his best friend was going to die, he’d grabbed at a sad little straw of hope, thinking that if he loved him hard enough it would wake him up. True love’s kiss worked in the fairy tales, so why not? They’d both been so young then, and Bucky was terrified of losing Steve.

More recently, kissing someone was hardly a novel concept to Bucky. Hell, he’d kissed a ton of dames. But this… Steve was different. Kissing him was so much scarier, so much more exhilarating, just so much _more._

This was _his Stevie._ It was his hot mouth kissing right back, and the sensation of it all finally happening completely shut off any higher thinking. All Bucky knew was wanting. Needing. Steve let out a soft whimper when Bucky pressed forward with his tongue, into the velvet soft smoothness of his mouth.

Steve’s hands gripped Bucky’s hips firmly and they walked each other back until they reached the sofa and the edge of it hit the back of Steve’s knees. He fell back, not letting go and pulled Bucky down on top of him in the process. Their bodies acted out of impulse, instinctually. Steve’s arms found purchase around Bucky’s broad shoulders and Bucky purposefully ground his hips down between Steve’s thighs. Steve keened at the contact and kissed Bucky back with everything he had.

It all happened so fast, and it felt perfect, but in the back of Bucky’s brain an alarm was blaring. He tried to silence it, focus only on what he was feeling until the guilt crept in, uninvited. He pulled back, breathlessly breaking contact.

“Wait…” he groaned, and Steve’s lips followed him up greedily. “Wait, Stevie- _fuck,”_ he tried again, pushing Steve’s hands away and sitting back on his heels. Bucky ran his thumb across his lower lip, a look split perfectly between want and regret on his face. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve looked up at Bucky, his big blue eyes wide in confusion. “What?” he breathed out. He searched Bucky’s face for some kind of clue. God, he wanted this so bad for so long and _finally…_ but now Bucky was apologizing? It was too much to process. One minute Bucky was kissing him passionately, intimately like a lover, and the next it was a mistake? “What the hell do you mean, you’re sorry?”

Steve sat back into the opposite corner of the couch and wrapped his arms around his legs. His face burned with shame, rejection, embarrassment and anger.

Bucky closed his eyes and shuddered a breath. This was wrong. Not Steve, not kissing him. Well, it was- they could be arrested, or worse, if anyone ever found out. That wasn’t why Bucky stopped, though.

“I just mean-”

“You should go…” Steve said quietly. His eyes were filled with hurt and his bottom lip trembled, but fuck if he was going to let Bucky see _that._ Bucky reached out but Steve shoved Bucky away and said it again, standing this time.

“Stevie, come on. Just... just let me explain,” Bucky stammered.

 _“Explain?_ What’s to explain, Buck?” Steve snapped, voice deep with warning, like a wounded animal.   

“I just shouldn’t have taken advantage like that, is all,” Bucky said, looking downright guilty. He shoved his hands nervously into his pockets and shifted on his feet.

“You, think you _took advantage of me?”_ Steve laughed sarcastically, a hollow, angry sound. He put his hands on his small hips and planted his feet. “Fuck you, _Bucky Barnes,”_ he growled.

Bucky felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. He’d never been able to deal well with Steve being mad at him. Hell, every breath he took was to protect Steve, to love him, to keep him safe. He’d fucked up, and worse, broken his promise to Sarah. _‘I’ll take care of him, I swear’_ he vowed before she left for Sea View. He turned to leave, blinking back the sting of tears in his eyes.

Steve watched as Bucky retreated, softly closing the door behind himself. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping the tears away. One minute he’s in the arms of his best friend, who he loves more than life itself, and the next… Bucky’s thinking he’s taking advantage of him? It was too much. He needed air.

Steve walked and walked. The summer sun was getting lower on the horizon and his feet were aching. He crossed the street to head back home and heard a woman holler out the window to her boys below in the street to come in for supper. A sharp pain hit him right in the chest and the tears began to well up in his eyes again. He remembered Sarah doing that very same thing for years when night fell and Steve had been out playing kick the can with Bucky.

He turned the corner to Holy Cross Church and lit a candle for Sarah after kneeling. He sat quietly in the back, trying to sort his feelings. Steve wasn’t stupid, he knew exactly how the church viewed homosexuals. He also knew that he was raised by a strong woman who taught him to question everything when it went against his two fundamentals, loving others and protecting those who need it.

 _“Promise me, Steve. Promise me you’ll always be true to yourself. I know you’re different, son. You and Bucky have a special relationship. The world will tell you it’s wrong, but the worst thing you can ever do is fight_ against _the love you have for someone because people don’t agree. Life can be ugly, but the Lord won’t ever turn His back on you for loving someone too much.”_

“I promise, Ma,” Steve whispered as he rose to leave. He walked the next couple of blocks home with his head held higher. He was resolute in his decision. It didn’t matter what happened earlier with Bucky. They were best friends- brothers, in a sense. If Bucky thought it was a mistake, then as much as it hurt, Steve would let it go. Whatever it took to make things right again, he’d do.

That night, Steve showered the day’s pain away before bed where he tossed and turned. The summer air was heavy and humid and the open window wasn’t helping because there was hardly any breeze. Steve laid on his back in nothing but his shorts, his arms folded on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, replaying the feeling of Bucky’s lips on his own, his weight pressing him down into the sofa.

_“Stevie… Hey, Stevie…”_

In his sleep, he smiled. The soft sound of his name on Bucky’s lips was music to his ears. If it was possible to curl up in a sound, he’d do it in Bucky’s voice. A warm hand gently caressed his face and he heard that beautiful sound again.

“Stevie. Wake up, I gotta talk to ya.”

Wait- that wasn’t his dream. That was, “Bucky?” His eyes focused on the dark form sitting next to him on the edge of his bed. Bucky sat fully dressed, like he’d been out all evening.

“Heya pal,” Bucky smiled. “M’sorry I woke ya, just couldn’t wait till mornin’.”

Steve sat up, rubbed at his eyes and yawned. Bucky smiled, a loving toothy grin, and ruffled the golden blond bedhead.

“Time is it?” Steve asked.

“Dunno, ‘bout two, I guess?” Bucky shrugged and sighed. “You still sore at me?”

Steve shook his head and reached for Bucky’s strong thigh, resting his hand on it to make sure he was real. “M’sorry ‘bout that earlier, Buck,” he said quietly. "We can just pretend nothin’ happened. I-” Steve’s voice broke and he shuddered out a breath. “I can’t lose you too.”

“No, Stevie. That’s not- wait, is that what you wanna do?”

Steve shrugged. “It’s okay, Buck.”

“That’s not what I asked ya, Stevie. I came here ‘cuz I _wanna_ talk about it, I need to know what you want.”

He sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought. “Shove over, punk.” Steve did as he was told and Bucky stood, stripping off everything but his shorts, and squeezed into bed next to him. It was a lot easier when they were kids, but old habits and all.

“I thought a lot about everythin’,” Steve began once they were settled, him back on his back and Bucky lying next to him, head propped up. Steve breathed him in; he smelled of clean skin, after shave and something else entirely Bucky. He looked up into his best friend’s grey eyes, the light from the full summer moon filtering through the open window, creating a soft glow around Bucky’s form in the dark room.

“You didn't take advantage of me, ‘kay Buck?” he began. “And I don’t _wanna_ pretend nothin’ happened, but I will if I gotta, I swear.” He knew there was a desperate edge to his voice, but he couldn’t lose this, what he and Bucky had. He’d love him in secret and from afar if that’s what he had to do, but he refused to push him away.

Bucky reached out and brushed Steve’s blond hair back off his forehead. “Hey, hey. Stevie, _baby,”_ he soothed, “me neither.” Steve’s breath hitched at the sound of the pet name and Bucky smiled, cupping his jaw and moving closer. Steve’s bright blue eyes closed and he moved just enough to nuzzle into the gentle sensation before meeting Bucky’s gaze again. Bucky’s tongue darted out to his lips nervously, causing them to shine and Steve to stare in wanting. “Can I try it again? Can I kiss you?”

“Buck,” Steve whimpered before pulling him down by the back of his neck. Their lips met and it was even better than the first time.

This time was deliberate and slow. They each took their time exploring the other, kissing, tasting, panting soft breaths against heated flesh as they moved together. Soft, pale skin with sharp angles and strong, tanned skin with defined muscle; nothing between them but soft noises, the cover of night and moonlight.

 

_Come to my window_

_Crawl inside, wait by the light of the moon_

_Come to my window, I’ll be home soon_


	3. 2016- I Don’t Care What They Say

**2016- I Don’t Care What They Say**

 

_I don’t care what they think_

_I don’t care what they say_

_What do they know about this love,_

_Anyway_

 

_Come, come to my window_

_I’ll be home, I’ll be home, I’ll be home_

_I am coming home_

 

Steve stepped forward silently, into the small, anonymous apartment. The only evidence of Bucky was the single pile of journals above the icebox. He holstered his shield and picked up one of the journals. He peered inside at the page marked by a brochure from the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian. Brightly colored flags littered other pages, each pointing to a memory, a question, a dream, a nightmare.

He could see Bucky was trying. The meticulous effort was evident on those pages and his heart skipped. Bucky knew him, but did he _know_ him? Was it possible he _remembered_ what they once meant to each other all those decades ago? Steve’s heartbeat was deafening in his own ears. So much so that he almost didn’t catch the faint sound of Bucky entering behind him.

He slowly turned and saw Bucky standing there, cautious and guarded. His eyes were wide, breathing unsteady due to the pounding of his heart. Steve, with his enhanced senses could hear it, the relentless thudding closely in time with his own.  

“Do you know me?” he asked, carefully gauging Bucky’s response.

“You’re Steve, I read about you in a museum,” Bucky answers with deliberate vagueness.

The truth is, he thinks he knows Steve, he’s pretty damn sure but the details are muddled, like a dream. He remembers a small, sickly blond boy with bright blue eyes who fought just to breathe every winter. He remembers a loud mouthed little shit who always got beat up in back alleys. He remembers waking up to a giant version of that small boy rescuing him from HYDRA once, many decades ago, and that the outside was nothing like it should have been but those piercing blue eyes were still shining with the warmth of a thousand suns.

Also, and he’s not sure if this is real or not, but he thinks he remembers the taste of those soft, full lips. The feeling of skinny arms and sharp angles pressed against his body in a tiny apartment under the cover of darkness. The warmth of flawless skin and firm muscle holding him through nightmares in a canvas tent somewhere in Europe, and the unmistakable scent of Steve that never changed from the time they were small boys to the man in front of him now. But just how much of that is real and how much is a fantasy? That’s the part he has trouble with.

“You’re lying,” Steve accuses with a shaky tone. He breaks eye contact and removes his helmet. “Buck,” he begs, softer than before. “Please, Buck. Tell me you _know_ me.” The vulnerability brings everything back into immediate clarity. It’s twelve years old and asks, _‘You think I’ll make it outta this one?’_ It’s seventeen and it begs, _‘I don’t wanna be alone’_ and neither does Bucky. He’s so fucking tired of being alone.

“Stevie...” he whispers. He takes a few tentative steps forward, closing the distance of the small room. His eyes never leave the blond’s except when he notices the slight trembling of Steve’s lower lip. Bucky hears the breath catch in Steve’s throat and they’re close enough to feel the heat coming off one another.

It’s when they’re this close Steve notices just how _big_ Bucky really is. He’s always been taller than Steve, heavier, more muscular- but this is nothing compared to what Steve remembers. They stand eye to eye, but Steve still feels smaller, protected, cared for. It’s like the pressure of being the Captain has vanished and he can finally, _finally_ be Steve again. Those grey eyes, though they now carry shadows of haunted memories- they still have the magical ability to swallow him whole and he goes into their abyss willingly.

Bucky surges forward the rest of the way until it’s impossible to tell where he ends and Steve begins. He’s missed his baby so much that the only way he could ever hope to communicate the gratitude of being found is through his lips. Words are nowhere near enough so he does what he’s always done when Steve’s beauty and blinding love has rendered him unable to speak. He kisses Steve breathless.

The feeling of their lips pressing together, it’s warm, and soft, and reverent. It’s new and familiar, overwhelming and nowhere near enough. Neither know who acts first, but their tongues are curling together, sliding into each other’s mouth and tasting what’s been missing from their lives for the past seventy years.

Steve reaches behind Bucky’s head and tangles his fingers in his long soft hair and Bucky moans into Steve’s mouth. Steve gives it right back when he feels Bucky’s strong hands grip his hips and pull him closer. They’re pressed against each other in the most intimate way two people possibly can be when fully dressed and it’s like _coming home._

It doesn’t last long. The worst kind of interruption comes at the worst possible time. Sam tells Steve through the comms that the international troops are surrounding the building. They’re there to find Bucky, to take him from Steve, and this time they’re ordered to shoot on sight. Well, that’s something that Steve just won’t allow to happen. Not when he’s just gotten him back. Not when they finally have each other, and when in these times what they’re doing is finally, perfectly legal. After all the miles they’ve traveled, all the blood they’re shed and spilled, the order to kill Bucky is the order that will never be filled. Not while there’s breath in Steve’s lungs and blood in his veins.

So they part, reluctant and breathless. They come up with a strategy and vow to come out of it alive and together, that nothing and no one will ever tear them apart again. Steve would burn down the world for Bucky, and Bucky would take every single ounce of pain, horror and heartache to save Steve from experiencing loss one more time. They fight hand in hand, back to back, side by side and promise each other that when it’s all over they’ll try this again.

And when they do... When they are alone, back in Steve’s peaceful apartment, it’s slow and reverent, and worshipping and complete. They’re finally  _home._

 

_Come to my window, oh-ho_

_Crawl inside, wait by the light of the moon_

_Come to my window, I’ll be home soon_

_I’ll be home, I’ll be home_

_I am coming home_

 

_Come to my window, oh-ho_

_Crawl inside, wait by the light of the moon_

_Come to my window, I’ll be home soon_

_I’ll be home, I’ll be home_

_I am coming home_

 

_I’ll be home, I’ll be home, I’ll be home soon_

**Author's Note:**

> An awesome reader Bella_Pierce translated the original third chapter's work into Russian. If you'd like to read it, you can find it here:  
> https://ficbook.net/readfic/5787722


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